


gaol pals

by sharkie



Series: the filth city [4]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Gaoler's Honey (Fallen London), POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-04-11 18:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19115056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: April receives an unexpected visitor.





	gaol pals

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on fail_fandomanon for '100 words of gratuitous f/f idfic'.

Nighttime at Spicebridge is near-indistinguishable from day. It’s not a matter of light, of course, but based on the influx of people outside: nobody walks this crooked path if they can help it. Few Dockers enjoy the journey over precarious bridges. Few Revolutionaries know of her precise location.

Emilia Hathersage is dignified, gracious, conscientious. April of the Calendar Council is, by nature, a paranoid crackpot who modified the mouse trap to explode and sleeps in a queen-sized bed solely to better accommodate her gun. Emilia Hathersage is dead. April is midway through her fortieth hour of work and has never felt more alive.

Then her heart almost stops at the first knock.

Where's that d_mned Clay Man? April grabs her pen and notepad. She puts an eye to the peephole and has to resist throwing the door open in surprise; she settles for opening it by a crack. A slim figure is silhouetted in the dark of the narrow alley outside, slouched against the far wall. As April beholds her familiar shape, the single working gas-lamp flickers in mockery of a memory of lightning.

The Captivating Princess has done her homework. The gas-lamp flickers again, and she holds up an open notepad with a filled front page:

_I’ve missed you._

The written word can be more menacing than spoken threats. As greatly as April detests Mr Iron - and its sorry excuses for engineering - she sees why it does this.

April puts her own pen to paper and scribbles furiously: _Back. Off._

The Princess pushes off the wall and approaches like a tiger spying a trespassing human in a hot spring. April retreats - no, April never retreats, she _steps backwards_ \- into the recesses of her safehouse. The door slams shut. Since they last met, Her Highness’ hair has grown a little longer. Somehow, her skin glows with greater radiance, even in the murk. She wears no hat, nor gloves; April is willing to bet that there’s little covering the lithe form beneath her coat.

April tears the sheet out of her notepad, continues on a fresh one, _Were you followed?_

 _Of course._ The Princess grins as she writes the next sentence. _But they will not find me._

The Princess reaches into her coat. April readies herself to shoot a weapon from her hands - but, no, she's procured a thin phial. And it’s filled with red darker than lifeblood.

Brighter, though, than the Princess’ eyes.

The Princess sets the phial on a table with inches of space to spare. _Just once?_ she writes. _For old time’s sake?_

April hesitates. She berates herself for her hesitation. Early in her formal career she’d learned that each second is precious, in terms of time and money and sheer impact. Waiting with an eyebrow cocked, the Princess looks every bit as stately as she would in either a crowded ballroom or in a Veilgarden den. And stateliness is meant to be savaged. A throb begins in the secret place between April's legs. It's been ages, countless ages -

April bows.

The Princess throws her head back and laughs. April's memory supplies the sound. Her Royal Highness blows out candles until her face is barely visible in the gloom. As she nears, her pen and notepad drop to the floor; April clutches hers tighter. Closer. Closer still. April cannot feel warmth from the Princess' body, only feral excitement mounting. The younger members of the Calendar Council had had their - entertainments, together, but between the odd fixation on their enemies and the general sense of mutual loathing, April had preferred to chase release elsewhere. What she'd found in the Captivating Princess had been more explosive than phosphorous and roughly as easy to get ahold of.

April's own pen and paper clatter onto the table. She grips the phial, uncorks it with her teeth - a feat more painful than it looks. She tilts it with a sarcastic flourish, and Gaoler’s Honey oozes onto the Princess’ waiting hand until Her Highness grows impatient and, visibly snarling, snatches the phial and pumps it.

Crimson glistens between the Princess’ slender fingers, down the back of her hand. Time stops as they appraise each other. In the breathless reunion of lips and hands, a smattering of Honey winds up on April’s skin, thick and sticky, just short of unpleasant. Some splatters onto the floor in big globs. Flat on her back, April distantly thinks that she’ll need to clean up later. Wait. When did she get here?

April has forgotten the stiff confines of a corset. Her drawers are utilitarian, easily unlaced by the Princess' nimble fingers. She reaches for the Princess and finds her coat already shucked, brushing a bare shoulder instead; she skims the pronounced line of her collarbone until she reaches the very top of the valley between her ample breasts, slides her calloused fingertip downwards to spread a bead of sweat.

The Princess had never been one for teasing. She starts to ease the first Honey-slick finger into April’s cunt. A hiss escapes April - she tries to focus on breathing, controlling what noise she makes, but the Princess latches her open lips onto hers like she’s trying to suck out her disused voice while she fucks the memories knuckle-deep. Theirs, somebody else’s - the distinction had always been vague.


End file.
